


After Night School Special

by everchanginginks



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode s01e07 Night School, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mild Gore, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-25 11:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17120798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everchanginginks/pseuds/everchanginginks
Summary: The sheriff drives Stiles home after the events of s01ep07Night School. Stiles is still reeling from being trapped in the school with the Alpha, having watched the janitor get killed by it and Derek... Derek dying. All he wants is to go to sleep but there's a surprise waiting in his room, more specificallyin his bed.





	After Night School Special

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, alicat54c! <3 I hope you enjoy this little fic. I tried to hit as many of your requests as possible. Hopefully it meets your expectations!

The Sheriff turns the cruiser up on the driveway and switches off the engine. Stiles remains in the passenger street, leaned back against the seat and resolutely staring out the window.

“Are you okay, kid?” the Sheriff asks with concern lacing his voice and Stiles thinks that he’s not, he’s really not.

“Sure. Just tired,” he replies and gives his dad a feeble smile which he hopes is convincing enough.

He just wants to go to bed, the gravity of the night’s event having truly hit him on the drive home from school.

“I have to get back there, is that alright?” the Sheriff enquiries, but they both know that there’s no real choice in the matter. He needs to get back to work, needs to keep searching for the body of the janitor.

“Yeah, I’ll just go to bed,” Stiles says and the sheriff’s hand clasps down on his shoulder in reassurance.

“I’m sure we’ll find him. And Derek Hale can’t have gotten far.”

Well, Stiles thinks, you’re right about that, pops. Because Derek Hale is  _ dead.  _ There’s no way, no way in hell that he could’ve survived being speared onto the Alpha’s claws like that. Fuck, there had been so much blood, spurting out of Derek’s mouth and down his shirt. Stiles knows that Scott still has hope, but Stiles doesn’t. Derek is dead. How they’ll ever defeat the Alpha after this is beyond him.

Stiles watches his dad reverse out of the driveway and lingers outside until the taillights are no longer visible. He makes his way inside and locks the door behind him, knowing that it won’t do him much good if the Alpha decides to come for him. Or if the Alpha demands  _ Scott  _ to come for him. That’s a whole other can of worms Stiles would rather not open up tonight.

He doesn’t turn any lights on until he steps into his own room, foregoing brushing his teeth for the immediate comfort of his bed. Only, there’s already someone  _ in  _ his bed.

“Jesus  _ Christ!” _ Stiles throws himself back against his bedroom door, heart jackrabbiting in his chest.

Derek Hale’s corpse, pale and bloody, lies face down on top of the covers. The back of his leather jacket is torn to shreds from where the Alpha had put his claws through it, through  _ him.  _ Stiles is already fumbling for his phone, to call his dad home right away when the corpse  _ groans.  _ Stiles drops the phone to the floor and stares.

“Derek?” he hazards hoarsely.

There’s no reply. Could he have imagined it? He thought he heard it so vividly. Stiles tiptoes carefully across the room to his bed, where Derek is looking extremely dead.

“Please don’t be a zombie, please don’t be a zombie,” he murmurs repeatedly as he reaches out a hand to touch Derek’s exposed neck. There’s no reaction, but somewhere beneath the skin he can feel the weakest hint of a heartbeat.

Definitely not a zombie, at least.

Stiles sinks to his knees next to the bed. He likes to think that it was a conscious decision, but his legs just gave out. In relief? In shock? He’s not sure, but it has him trembling. Derek isn’t dead. Derek is  _ alive  _ and in his  _ bed  _ and judging by the amount of blood seeping into Stiles’ mattress,  _ not healing. _

Stiles is off the floor in seconds, stumbling across the hall to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit from beneath the sink. He tells himself that he’s an idiot, that Derek needs the hospital and not whatever Stiles can dig out from the first aid kit which barely has been touched since his mom died. But Derek didn’t drag himself to the hospital,  _ the fucking idiot,  _ which is arguably closer to the school than Stiles’ house. He must have a reason. Did he hear how Scott blamed the death of the janitor on him?

“I really hate you,” Stiles mutters when he’s back at Derek’s side and, after a moment’s hesitation, tries to pull the tattered leather jacket off of Derek. Still, zero reaction from Derek. “All the times I’ve imagined you in my bed did  _ not _ play out like this at all. Also, I really hope you’re not listening right now. If you are, forget what I just said.”

It takes some serious manhandling to wrangle off the jacket and Stiles is sweating by the end of it. Derek’s light grey t-shirt is soaked in blood. For a second Stiles has to fight back his gag reflex, knowing that whatever is underneath will be a hundred times worse. He fixes his gaze somewhere up on the wall while rolling up the fabric. Just the feel of the wet blood against his fingertips makes his hairs stand on end.

By the time the t-shirt is bunched up by Derek’s armpit, Stiles knows that he has to look down. One glance, and he feels faint. There are five distinct claw marks down Derek’s back, all of them still oozing blood. They look way too deep for Derek to even be alive right now and this is all way over Stiles’ non-existent paygrade, but here he is and he’s just going to have to deal with it.

“Okay, Stiles, get it the fuck together,” he tells himself, taking a couple of deep breaths before he’s up on his feet again to fetch water and towels, anything to soak up the blood.

He does his best. It’s admittedly not a lot, but he’s a 16 year old kid and not a doctor. He washes the blood from Derek’s back. Pours disinfectant onto the wounds - even that doesn’t even warrant a hiss from Derek. He covers Derek’s back with layer upon layer of compress until he runs out of them.

It takes approximately thirty seconds before red stripes of blood soak through the compresses. The hopelessness of the situation washes over Stiles with a wave of frustration. Derek might not have died at Beacon Hills High, but it looks like he’s slowly going to bleed out in Stiles’ bed. Stiles makes an incredulous noise, places his hands on Derek’s back and just  _ shouts. _

“Why won’t you  _ heal _ , you  _ idiot _ ?!”

A lot of things happen in a really short span of time. Stiles’ hands  _ burn,  _ wherever they’re in contact with Derek’s skin and before he has a chance to pull them back, sparks fly.  _ Literally.  _ It’s like electricity, like getting shocked, and it’s powerful enough for Stiles to fly back against the wall. Derek’s eyes fly open, wide and intensely blue and he roars so loud that the window panes tremble.

“What did you do?” Derek hisses through his fangs, his face distorted with his shift.

“I didn’t do  _ anything,  _ you zapped me!” Stiles exclaims in his own defense, crowded up against the wall.

“Werewolves don’t ‘zap’, idiot,” Derek says, his features slowly shifting back to human as he sits up on the bed. He grimaces slightly.

“Well, humans don’t either, jerk. Don’t move, you’re bleeding.”

Stiles makes an attempt to get up on his feet, but his vision swims and if it wasn’t for Derek catching him, he would’ve dropped straight back down on his ass. A protest is halfway out between Stiles’ lips, attempting to tell Derek to sit still, but Derek is already in his space and Stiles reaches for him for stability. His hand lands on Derek’s back, which only a minute ago was torn to shreds. All he can feel now is smooth, warm skin, without as much as a scar.

“... how?” he asks, his tired mind working a mile a minute but it keeps stumbling over itself, as are his legs.

“The healing magic must have worn you out,” Derek says, or at least he thinks that’s what he says, but that doesn’t make any sense at all. What magic? He tries to object, but he slurs his words and Derek pays him no attention while he manhandles him back to the bed.

Stiles has half a mind to complain about the bloody sheets, but he doesn’t feel the blood when he’s unceremoniously dropped upon the mattress.

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Derek commands and Stiles has run out of objections.

\---

Stiles wakes with a jolt. His room is empty, the sun bathing it in light. A glance at his clock tells him that he’s been asleep for over ten hours. There’s no sign of Derek, of the blood or anything that happened last night. Was it a dream? Surely not. No, definitely not.

A sweep across the room concludes that his phone has been plugged into the charger on top of his desk. He makes his way over on still shaky legs and sits down in his desk chair before grabbing the phone. There’s a text from an unknown number flashing on the screen and Stiles opens it without trepidation.

_ Thanks for the help. Text me when you wake up. _

_ Derek _

Stiles can’t press the reply button fast enough.


End file.
